


Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22903360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: In which Bedivere rages against the missives Gawain’s ghost has to deliver.Post Battle of Camlann.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

“No,” Bedivere shook his head, “I’ve gone mad. The wine was poisoned. My mind has fractured under duress.”

He paced the length of his quarters, refusing to look at the apparition who took the shape of Gawain sunning itself in the light of the window.

“I’m afraid all three of those guesses are wrong,” Gawain told him, “Surely, this isn't the strangest thing you have experienced.”

“Everyone is dead,” Bedivere’s voice was the type of flat that only happened when one was on the verge of hysterics, “The King, Kai, Lancelot, Galahad, every single one of your brothers.”

“Bors lives,” Gawain told him, “as do Dinadan, Percival and the wives and children of your brothers-in-arms.”

“I never much cared for wives or children,” Bedivere spat, “And for the rest of them, what does it matter? They did not stand with their King for his final battle, did not sit vigil while his life faded.”

Bedivere stopped pacing to sit on the chair by desk. Leaning one elbow on the table, he buried his face in his hand.

“Why are you here?” Bedivere asked, “If my first three guesses were incorrect, why are you here?”

“Arthur only went to war against Lancelot because he believed his legacy demanded it,” Gawain didn’t answer the question, “And Lancelot only went to war against Arthur because he could not forgive Arthur for exposing his affair with the Queen.”

“You're the one who started this war!” Bedivere flipped the desk as he stood up, “Your desire for revenge had you use your own King as a pawn, and now look. Everyone, dead, because of you.”

The desk hit the stone floor with a clatter, wood splintering and one leg snapping off from the force.

“You say that as if you spoke against the war,” Gawain raised a knowing eye brow.

“You say that as if you were privy to every meeting around the war table,” Bedivere snarled, “You, the Knight of the Sun, Orkney's hope, hid your cowardice behind your nobility until you decided your stake in it was too personal.”

Some shouts, far down the hall, told Bedivere the commotion had drawn attention. He kept his attention on Gawain's ghost.

“They were my brothers,” the apparition flickered, almost as if to leave, “all cut down well before their prime because the King wanted to burn the Queen instead of handling it in the shadows as Kings before him have, and Kings after him will.”

“And you lost your other two at Camlann,” Bedivere sat back down, unfixed eyes pointed towards the broken desk a few feet away, “Your brothers died because of you have no understanding of how war or politics work.”

Gawain frowned, a deep, sorrowful thing. Ghostly brown eyes met Bedivere's steely gray ones, sorrow and sorrow unable to find any respite.

A short, shouted exchange outside the doors told them guards were arriving.

“I also lost my life,” Gawain said as if Bedivere could have forgotten, “You think I don't understand now how near-sighted my rage made me?”

“You can take your belated realizations back to whichever afterlife let you out for the day,” Bedivere growled, “They do me no good.”

Gawain made a thoughtful sound, but said no more. The door was swung open by a small group of well-intentioned guards. The force caused the hinges to over-extend, the door bouncing back towards the guard who had taken point.

“Sir,” the guard sounded young, “are you alright?”

“Yes,” Bedivere hissed, “You may leave.”

“But sir,” the guard was staring at the flipped desk.

“You may leave,” Bedivere repeated, more force behind the dismissal.

The guard made a small sound before someone behind him put a hand on his shoulder. Reluctantly, he left Bedivere to whatever breakdown he was having.

–

“Camelot will need a King,” in a voice disturbingly was the first thing Bedivere heard when he awake the next morning.

“Jesus and the Holy Virgin,” Bedivere jumped out of bed, “Why?

“Every Kingdom needs a King,” Gawain's ghost said effortlessly.

“Camelot had a King and you lead him to his death,” Bedivere's words did not carry the anger he felt, the hour early and his mind weary.

“That does not change what Camelot needs now,” Gawain replied.

“Why are you here?” Bedivere demanded.

Gawain did not reply – a refusal, Bedivere decided, rather than out of ignorance.

Bedivere set about getting ready for the day, his wounds from the battle still healing and  
his mind worn thin. He did his best to ignore the ghost as it kept talking and talking, each word meaning less than the one before it.

“And the thing is,” Gawain showed no signs of silencing himself, “death really makes you think. Makes you realize so much about how you loved was wrong, how much you'd change if you could.”

“I would change many things,” Bedivere huffed, “and I am still alive.”

“Then your initial afterlife isn't looking very pleasant,” Gawain informed him.

“The rest of my life isn't looking pleasant either,” Bedivere muttered as he put the finishing touches on his outfit. It was a simple thing, for the most part – tunic, hose, leather boots that came up past his knees, and a belt to secure the tunic. He pinned a miniature version of Camelot's crest over his heart.

He set to combing out his hair until he could run his brush through it without any knots catching. He tied it loosely at the base of his neck and tucked a pin into the top of the tie.

“The vanity doesn't suite you,” Gawain informed him.

Bedivere decided it was his turn to not reply despite the lack of question. He took a deep breath and exited his chambers.

“I always thought it would be fun,” Gawain's ghost made walking motions beside Bedivere, “if I got to be a ghost after I died, like all the ones we've seen over the years. Remember that one that specifically went after Bors on our way to -”

“Stop,” Bedivere hissed under his breath.

A nearby servant squeaked and dropped the basked he was carrying.

“Sorry,” Bedivere said, louder. He did not look back to see if his apology was acknowledged.

Gawain made a humming sound and frowned. “What's the plan for the day?”

“I go to the council,” Bedivere said under his breath, “I listen in on another goddamned day of their ceaseless debates. I pretend like any of it matters without Arthur to execute any of their plans he chooses to build on.”

“So why do you go?” Gawain asked.

Bedivere looked around and, upon finding the hall empty, spoke clearly. “So they do not sully Arthur's legacy by executing someone – or something – in his name. As if death was not enough.”

“You continue to stand vigil,” Gawain used more plain, straightforward words.

“Until the end,” Bedivere closed his eyes for a moment, “whatever that looks like.”

–

There was shouting when Bedivere opened the doors to the ruins of the round table. The remnants of Arthur's council – once merely a formality, some bastards who used Arthur's death as a chance to seize power.

They sat on the chairs meant for the Knights, the table itself fractured, unusable.

“Sir Bedivere!” one of them exclaimed. They all rose to their feet, hands clasped to their sides, posture rigid.

“Bedivere looked between them – four today, so one was missing – and Merlin.

“Merlin,” Bedivere greeted the wizard only, "I see everyone convened early without notifying me."

“Ah,” Gawain said.

“I do believe we have a solution to your regent problem,” Merlin stared at Bedivere, one eyebrow raised.

“A Knight who was neither champion nor confidant?” one of the council members sneers.

“Did they miss the part where you were his friend from childhood?” Gawain asked.

“Aside from the late Sir Kay,” Merlin said slowly, “Bedivere stood by Arthur longer than anyone. If there is a soul alive today that knows the mind of Arthur, will be able to make decisions as if he were Arthur, it is Bedivere.”

The council looked between each other, a series of glances, blinks and head motions that told Bedivere there was a language they shared the rest of the world was not privy to.

“Camelot needs a King,” Gawain repeated.

–

Bedivere sat on Arthur's throne, the crown of the High King perched on his head. It was heavy, physically and otherwise. He sat up straight as he listened to one of the priests who had served Guinevere recite whatever it was he needed to for the official recognition of Bedivere as regent to take effect.

“I'm sorry,” Gawain said, “I am so, truly sorry.”

Bedivere did not respond – could not respond – all eyes in the room on him.

The priest closed his bible and bowed before exiting.

“First order of business,” Bedivere looked around, “The High King's council is dismissed, never to return to the castle.”

“Sir!” one of the council members started to argue.

“You did not serve Arthur,” Bedivere barely kept himself from shouting, “You served your own names, your own legacies. I will keep council as Arthur did – with my most trusted me around the round table.”

“Sir,” a second council member said.

“Out!” Bedivere ordered.

The door guards moved to escort the council members.

There was a small skirmish that resulted in two serious wounds on two different former council members and a lot of yelling before Bedivere was alone in the throne room.

At least, as close to alone as he could manage.

He back on the throne, shoulders slumped. He put his elbows on his knees, partial arm out in front of him and his hand covering his face, fingers splayed.

“Penance,” Gawain said.

“What?” Bedivere looked up.

“I'm here to serve a penance,” Gawain managed an entire sentence.

“Camelot needs a King,” Bedivere sighed, “Can anyone else hear you?”

“Merlin,” Gawain said, “I haven't tried anyone else.”

“I'll send for the other survivors,” Bedivere told Gawain, “By the time they arrive I will, hopefully, have forgiven their absence.”

“You meant it,” Gawain smiled.

“I see no other way,” Bedivere admitted, “Mordred was Arthur's only child and he, too, is dead. All his sister's children are dead. Kai, by virtue of being his foster-brother, would have been next, but Kai is dead. Lancelot betrayed him, so no champion-as-regent. But, you knew it would be me, didn't you?”

“It sure wasn't going to be one of Kai's children,” Gawain snorted, “Can you imagine having a literal child on the throne?”

“Plus their mother was not the king's foster-sibling,” Bedivere shook his head, “so the relations ended with Kai. Arthur was not much more than a child when he took up the throne.”

“Death has no sense of timing,” Gawain laughed.

“Get me Merlin, will you?” Bedivere changed the subject. Gawain nodded and disappeared, leaving Bedivere to be truly alone.

–

Bedivere sat proudly on the throne, Percival, Bors, and Dinadan knelt in front of him. Bors' Son, Elyan, knelt beside his father. A small crowd of survivors had gathered to watch the proceedings.

Merlin stood to Bedivere's right, face grim and jaw set. Gawain hovered to Bedivere's left, his face a near mirror of Merlin's.

“As regent,” Bedivere's voice rang throughout the throne room, “I welcome you back to the order of Knights of Camelot. And you, Elyan, as an apprentice Knight.

“Together, we will rebuild. Camelot will rise above the blood and ashes of war that threatened to destroy her, a castle to stand against time itself as a symbol of what is right, what is just.”

Bedivere touched each of them on the right shoulder with his own sword. One by one, all four rose, right hand clutched over their hearts and heads bowed.

“There's so few of them,” Gawain said.

“For now,” Merlin kept his voice low enough that only Gawain and Bedivere could hear him.

“King Arthur has not left us,” Bedivere ignored the bantering, “merely changed how he speaks. My life, as always, is dedicated to my King - to his thoughts, his ideas, his visions. While I will not claim to be him, I will uphold his standards until my dying breath.”

A ripple of excited murmurs made its way around the room.

“For Camelot,” Bedivere said as he raised his sword in the air.

“For Camelot!” came a unified echo.

Bedivere stood in front of the throne – his throne – sword loose in his grip and arms at ease.

As he looked between the Knights – his Knights - hope dared to flare in his soul.


End file.
